The Best of the Realms, Book I

CHAPTER 7

Liriel Baenre returned to Menzoberranzan after a meretwo days, battered and bereft of a bit of her abundant white hair, but grimlytriumphant. Or so everyone assumed. Not until the ceremony was she required togive formal proof of her kill.

All of House Shobalar gathered in the throne room ofMatron Hinkutes'nat for the coming-of-age ceremony. It was required, but mostcame anyway for the vicarious pleasure to be had in witnessing the grislyrelics, and to relive the pride and pleasure of their own first kills. Suchmoments reminded all present of what it meant to be drow.

At Narbondel, the darkest hour, Liriel stepped forwardto claim her place among her people. To Xandra Shobalar, her mistress andmentor, she was required to present the ritual proof.

For a long moment, Liriel held the older wizard'sgaze, staring into Xandra's crimson orbs with golden eyes that were cold andfathomless-full of unspoken power and deadly promise. That, too, was somethingshe had learned from her dreaded father.

When at last the older wizard's gaze faltered uncertainly,Liriel bowed deeply and reached into the bag at her waist. She took from it asmall green object and held it high for all to see. There were murmurs as someof the Shobalar wizards recognized the artifact for what it was.

"You surprise me, child," Xandra saidcoldly. "You who were anticipating a 'gallant hunt,' to trap and slay yourprey with such a device."

"A child no more," Liriel corrected her.

A strange smile crossed her face, and with a quick,vicious movement, she threw the vial to the floor.

The crystal shattered, a delicate, tinkling sound thatechoed long in the stunned silence that followed-for standing before theMistress of Magic, his green eyes glowing with malevolence, was the humanwizard. He was very much alive, and in one hand he held the golden collar thathad imprisoned him to Xandra's will.

With a speed that belied his years, the human conjureda crimson sphere of light and hurled it, not at Xandra, but at the dark elfmale who stood guard at the rear door. The hapless drow shattered into bloodyshards. Before anyone could draw breath, the bits of flesh whirled into the airand began to take on new and dreadful shapes.

For many moments, everyone in the throne room was busyindeed. The Shobalar wizards and priestesses hurled spells, and the fightersbattled with arrows and swords winged creatures given birth by their drowcomrade's death.

At last, there was only Xandra and the wizard, standingnearly toe to toe and blazing with eldritch light as their spells attacked andriposted with the speed and verve of a swordmasters' dual. Every eye in thethrone room, drow and slave alike, was fixed upon the deadly battle, and allwere lit with vicious excitement as they awaited the outcome.

Finally, one of the Red Wizard's spells slipped pastXandra's defenses. A daggerlike stab of light sliced the drow's face fromcheekbone to jaw. The flesh parted in a gaping wound, deep enough to reveal thebones beneath.

Xandra let out a wail that would have shamed a banshee,and with a speed that rivaled that of a weapons master's death blow, she lashedback. Pain, desperation, and wrath combined to fuel a blast of magic powerfulenough to send a thunderous, shuddering roar through the stone chamber.

The human caught the full force of the attack. Hissmoking body hurtled up and back like a loosed arrow. He hit the far wall nearthe ceiling and slid down, leaving a rapidly cooling streak on the stone. There was a holethe size of a dinner plate where his chest had been, and his sodden robes werea slightly brighter shade of crimson.

Xandra, too, crumpled, utterly exhausted by themomentous spell battle, and further weakened by the copious flow of bloodspilling from her torn face. Drow servants rushed to attend her, and her sistersgathered around to murmur spells of healing. Through it all, Liriel stoodbefore the matron's throne, her face set in a mask of faint, cynical amusement,and her eyes utterly cold.

When at last the Mistress of Magic had recoveredenough breath for speech, she hauled herself into a sitting position andleveled a shaking finger at the young wizard.

"How do you dare commit such an … anoutrage!" she sputtered. "The rite has been profaned!"

"Not so," Liriel said. "You stipulatedthat the wizard could be slain with any weapon of my choice. The weapon I chosewas you."

A second stunned silence descended upon the chamber.It was broken by a strange sound, one that no one there had ever heard beforeor had ever expected to hear:

Matron Mother Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar was laughing.

It was a rusty sound, to be sure, but there wasgenuine amusement in the matron's voice and in her crimson eyes.

"This defies all the laws and customs of.." Xandra began, but the matron mother cut her off with an imperious gesture.

"The rite of Blooding has been fulfilled,"Hinkutes'nat proclaimed, "for its purpose is to make a true drow of ayoungling dark elf. Evidence of a devious mind serves this purpose as well asbloody hands."

Ignoring her glowering daughter, the matron turned toLiriel and said, "Well done! By all the power of this throne and thisHouse, I proclaim you a true drow, a worthy daughter of Lolth! Leave yourchildhood behind, and rejoice in the dark powers that are our heritage and ourdelight."

Liriel accepted the ritual welcome-not with a deepbow, but with a slight incline of her head. She was a child no longer, and as anoble female of House Baenre, she was never to bow to a dark elf of lesser rankagain. Gromph had schooled her in such matters, drilling her until sheunderstood every shade and nuance of the complicated protocol. He had impressedupon her that the Blooding ceremony marked not only her departure fromchildhood, but her full acceptance into the Baenre clan. All that stood betweenher and both those honors were the ritual words of acceptance that she mustspeak.

But Liriel was not quite finished. Following animpulse that she only dimly understood, she crossed the dais to the place wherea defeated Xandra sat slumped, submitting glumly to the continuedministrations of the House Shobalar priestesses.

Liriel stooped so that she was at eye level with herformer mentor. Slowly she extended her hand and gently cupped the older drow'schin-a rare gesture that was occasionally used to comfort or caress a child,or, more often, to capture the child's attention before dictating terms. It wasunlikely that Xandra, in her pain-ridden state, would have consciously attachedthat meaning to her former student's gesture, but it was clear that she instinctivelygrasped the nuance. She flinched away from Liriel's touch, and her eyes werepure malevolence.

The girl merely smiled. Then, suddenly, she slid herpalm up along the jawline of Xandra's wounded cheek, gathering in her cuppedhand some of the blood that stained the wizard's face.

With a single, quick movement, Liriel rose to her feetand turned to face the watching matron mother. Deliberately she smearedXandra's blood over both hands, front and back, and she presented them toMatron Hinkutes'nat.

"The ritual is complete. I am a child no more,but a drow," Liriel proclaimed.

The silence that followed her words was long andimpending, for the implications of her action went far beyond the limits ofpropriety and precedence.

At last Matron Mother Hinkutes'nat inclined herhead-but not in the expected gesture of completion. The Shobalarmatriarch added the subtle nuance that transformed the regal gesture into thesalute exchanged between equals. It was a rare tribute, and rarer still was theamused understanding-and the genuine respect-in the spidery female's eyes.

All of which struck the young drow as highly ironic.Though it was clear that Hinkutes'nat applauded Liriel's gesture, she herselfwas not entirely certain why she had done what she did.

That question plagued Liriel throughout the celebrationthat traditionally followed the ceremony. The spectacle provided by herBlooding had been unusually satisfying to the attending drow, and the revelryit inspired was raucous and long. For once Liriel entered into festivities withless than her usual gusto, and she was not at all sorry when the last bellsignaled the end of the night.